Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Tonight, when we left the Kremlin, the building that houses Chicago's bratva, I felt on top of the world. Well, not on top of the world–that's going way too far. But I felt strong and bold, like a different person.
The girl in the mirror looked like she could be in a punk rock band like Story. She looked like the kind of girl who could hold her own. The kind no one would mess with.
I may be low-level obsessed with Story. The front person of her own band. The punk rock star with a giant Russian bodyguard for a boyfriend. But maybe that's just because I'm fascinated by everything to do with Flynn. And Story is Flynn's older sister.
I watch him now from the side of the stage. My position lets me be a fly on the wall, and I prefer it so much to being out with the rest of the fans. Back here, I feel safe. I feel like an insider. Especially because Flynn deposited me here.
He made me promise to remain! That thought has my heart racing again.
I take in his tall, lanky form as he performs. He is the epitome of cool–everything a rising star should be. Neatly trimmed beard, a skull cap on his head. His clever fingers dance over the bass guitar strings. He smiles and scowls and performs like a dream.
I watch his shoulders and biceps flex under a faded Radiohead t-shirt as he plays. He’s masculine without being threatening. He has that laid-back demeanor that makes it possible for me to breathe when he’s around. He makes me forget who I am–which is a good thing.
Because I absolutely hate the skin I live in.
As I watch, a slow pulse starts up between my legs. My breasts get achy. I want him.
I want Flynn Taylor.
I watch the entire set from my vantage point. They play through all their songs, mixing in covers from other bands, as usual. They keep the show fresh for their fans–there’s always something new every week.
This week Story pulls out a kick-ass version of Nena’s “99 Luftballons.” Yes–the German version–and her accent isn’t half bad.
When it’s over, the band exits the stage, and Oleg, Story’s bratva boyfriend who doubles as a bodyguard and sound engineer, comes onstage to pack up the equipment.
The bar hasn’t closed yet–they always end a solid thirty minutes before closing time, or else the bouncers can’t get people out the door. Tonight they ended even earlier, but no one seems inclined to leave.
In fact, the girls start up a giggled chant, “Flynn! Flynn! Flynn!”
Heat flushes down my neck and arms. I’m not jealous. I’m not. I mean, I have no expectations of Flynn. I’m definitely not reading anything into the fact that he invited me to a party. He probably invited six other girls to go party with him tonight, too.
That thought makes my stomach turn.
Okay, fine. I’m totally jealous. I want Flynn’s attention.
All of it.
I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll get it. I’m shocked he’s even noticed I’m alive. I honestly don’t know how I even got this far with him. I know I am no threat to any of the girls out there. I’m far too damaged. Barely functioning.
It’s been a year since Adrian freed me from the basement of Leon Poval’s sofa factory, and the PTSD still has me firmly in its jaws. Some days, I still can’t even get out of the apartment.
All I know is Flynn makes me want to try.
“There he is!” One of the young women shouts, pointing in my direction.
I jump to my feet like I’m under fire and find Flynn right behind me, his hands steadying my waist.
It means nothing. He touches everyone, I remind myself, but that doesn’t stop the frantic beat of my pulse everywhere.
He spares the young women crowding the edge of the stage a friendly grin and wave, and they instantly take it as an invitation to launch themselves up onto the platform and rush toward us.
When I flinch, he catches my hand, which makes all five of the women barrelling toward us react with comic dismay.
“Are you coming to my party, Flynn?” A gorgeous brunette asks. Her shirt barely contains her ripe breasts, and she has eyebrows to die for.
I don’t hate her. Much.
“Yep, we’re coming.” He nudges me, and her mouth opens in even more visible dismay. She appears semi-drunk, so all of her reactions are exaggerated and obvious.
“Oh. You both are? Well, um, okay. Cool. Who’s your friend?”
“Nadia. This is, um…Candice.”
“Cadence,” she corrects with a scowl.
"Oh right. Totally. Send me the pin for your party?"
Her gaze travels from Flynn to me, and she blinks a couple times. “Yeah. I mean, yeah. I will.” She brushes her hand down his arm, and he doesn't react at all.
I'm already regretting my plan. I can't hang with Flynn. Women like this will be throwing themselves at him all night. What if he decides to hook up with one of them, and I'm suddenly on my own? I need a wingwoman. I wish Kat was single. Which is stupid since I wouldn't know her at all if my brother hadn't brought her home to live with us.